


Carry me to you

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 04, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: Sherlock is actually going to ask John Watson on a date.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [带我到你身边](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10030481) by [LoveBBCSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveBBCSH/pseuds/LoveBBCSH)



> This was my fic for the Johnlock Fanzine, so if you got a copy of that, you might have already read it, but here it is for everyone else!

******1.**

Sherlock is _actually_ going to ask John Watson on a date.

 

Genuinely he can’t believe it. He feels silly and frivolous and embarrassed about the butterflies in his stomach when John passes by him too closely. He’s no idea how to do this, how _anyone_ does this.

 

One Sunday when John’s at the store he sits down at his desk and makes a list of ideas:

 

_-Tell him it’s for a case and take him to Angelo’s again_

_-Text him?_

_-Buy tickets to the theater and tell him you both need to get out_

_-Buy him a gift_

_-Drop hints about being free on weekend nights_

_-Just ask him, you bloody twit_

 

He crosses them all out and then tears the paper to shreds. Throwing the pieces away in three different bins, he curses himself for not accepting John’s advances two weeks ago at Angelo’s. _Married to my work_ , what a heedless cliche, like the heroine in a simpering romantic comedy who’s ‘focusing on her career right now.’ Sherlock stares off into space remembering the night.

 

_My God, I_ am _the heroine in a simpering romantic comedy._

 

He’s donning his coat before the thought finishes, rushing from the flat and heading to Tesco for a box of Valentine’s chocolate.

 

_Might as well embrace my new role_.

 

\--

 

“How does anyone choose?! There’s an entire AISLE of these!!”

 

It’s not the first time Sherlock has caused a scene in a Tesco, but it _is_ the first time that candy serves as the catalyst.

 

“Pipe down, mate.” Some bloke who’s also haplessly browsing heart-shaped boxes scowls over at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, you need quiet when looking for the cheapest option possible for your long suffering wife who’s pregnant for what? The fourth–no, _fifth_ time?”

 

The man’s scowl turns to naked shock. Sherlock grabs a tiny pink heart containing 4 plasticine-like cordials visible through the gummy plastic window and chucks it at the man’s head.

 

“Here, one pound fifty. Now bugger off to the pub for an hour so you can pretend you put some thought into it.”

 

The man looks too embarrassed to argue and shuffles away quickly, which Sherlock thinks is really a shame. A good fist fight would have been _so_ diverting. He turns back to the endless wall of candy, stumped beyond belief.

 

“ _Hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life,”_ He mutters to himself.

 

An associate wearing a blue polo passes and Sherlock’s hand shoots out to grab her arm.

 

“Which of these candies would make your roommate say yes to going out with you even though two weeks ago you told him you were married to your work like an absolute and total moron?”

 

She looks a bit stunned then chuckles and turns to assess the assortment of options.

 

“Ermm, let’s see.” She scans back and forth, landing on a medium-sized red heart that indicates it contains 12 of the finest dark Belgian chocolates ever manufactured. It’s velveteen, it’s heavy, it has ribbon attached with a solid golden charm. It looks expensive and delicious, and not frivolous at all. Sherlock’s fingers flex around it and he nods.

 

The associate smiles at him and gently touches his arm.

 

“Don’t worry, he’ll say yes.”

 

Sherlock’s head snaps up. The employee’s eyes are so earnest and kind Sherlock feels his throat closing up and tears pricking his eyes. He clumsily mumbles a thanks, hurrying off toward the front.

 

\--

 

Sherlock loses his nerve with astounding velocity.

 

It starts on the tube. He didn’t take a bag for the chocolates and women in the carriage keep catching his eye to shoot him knowing and approving smiles. It’s gross. Sherlock much prefers riding the tube covered in blood. No one makes eye contact with you then.

 

_John’s going to say no_.

 

It’s replaying in Sherlock’s head, like a top 40 hook, vivid and inescapable. Relentless. His slim fingers curl around the protruding edges of the candy box, creasing them and making the plastic crunch beneath the velveteen veneer. Sherlock suddenly can’t remember what possessed him to do this. He really _is_ married to his work, he doesn’t have time for a romantic entanglement. Doesn’t have time for lingering looks or shared showers or … waking up next to John or … spending entire days in bed ... _John’s going to say no._  

 

“Shut up!!”

 

No one’s smiling at him now. He opens the chocolates and eats two at once.

 

\--

 

Sherlock’s pretending to do an experiment in the kitchen because John is showering. It feels intrusive, maybe a bit predatory, but he tries to shakes it off. He’s just in the kitchen. Counting mold spores. Not doing anything wrong.

 

Ten minutes later John breezes through the kitchen in his robe only and Sherlock’s stomach careens over itself. He shuts down his senses best he can, poised at the microscope, eyes burning.

 

“What’s this, then?”

 

John’s pulled the week-old, half eaten box of chocolates from underneath scattered newspapers on the kitchen table. Sherlock’s mouth goes completely dry. _Shut him down, run away!!_ Sherlock’s brain screams and screams.

 

“Oh, that,” He waves a hand dismissively. “It was in a discount bin at Tesco. Felt like some sweets.”

 

“... oh.”

 

Does John sound a bit … disappointed? _Don’t look up, don’t_.

 

“Take it,” Sherlock spits out, a bit too hard.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Of course. It’s yours if you want it.” Sherlock tries to ignore the metaphor: John holding Sherlock’s half empty heart. Sherlock offering it to him. He _tries_ to ignore it but his chest is too tight, his throat closing up. Wordlessly he leaves the room. John calls _Cheers!_ after him through a mouthful of chocolate just as Sherlock slams his bedroom door.

 

**2.**

The next Valentine’s Day shows up on the calendar like a surprise. _Surely a whole year can’t have passed?_

 

Things have been tense in the flat since New Year. Since Irene. The things Sherlock overheard at Battersea Station … he has to shut them out, has to keep John at arm’s length so he’ll be safe. But he _wants_. He wants so much and he knows he can’t do this much longer. Surely he can protect John from Moriarty, from whatever might happen … right? What’s the point of being a bloody genius otherwise?

 

Sherlock walks past store windows full of Valentine’s candy every day and his nails cut crescent-shaped wounds into his palms.

 

As the day approaches, Sherlock’s behavior gets more erratic. He buys chocolates but then eats them all on the ride home, leaving the heart-shaped box crumpled on the taxi floor. He tries not to talk to John at all because he’s afraid one soft smile will make him spill everything.

 

Finally, on the day, Sherlock resolves to do it. Just as he had planned last year. Buy the chocolates, ask him out, see what happens. Surely he’ll say yes now? Surely, after what Sherlock heard … he can keep them safe. He can. Sherlock repeats it to himself, over and over, with every step.

 

_Damn it all to hell. No more waiting_

 

\--

 

Heart in hand, Sherlock scales the steps of 221B and calls out for John. His stomach is in knots, but he’s elated, excited. Even optimistic. _This is it_.

 

“John? I’ve got something I want to—” Sherlock stops short, noticing a note stabbed into the mantel.

 

_Sherlock,_

_Off for a Valentine’s getaway with Alice. Should be a good holiday, eh? Back tomorrow. Cheers,_

_JW_

 

_Alice._ The red-headed waitress at Speedy’s John won’t shut up about.

 

In a flurry of motion Sherlock builds a fire in the hearth and tosses the note and the box of chocolates into the flames, sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth to watch them burn. The melting plastic is putrid and the stench fills the flat. Sherlock breathes it in until his lungs burn, but everything still smells like John.

 

**3.**

Being right is mostly a curse. In the moment, it’s a warm rush of pleasure, a burning vindication, proof that he’s smart, he really _is_ a genius and no one can take it away. But then … the consequences.

 

He’d told himself John was in danger just by virtue of being Sherlock’s friend, and he’d been right, and now Sherlock’s fake dead and everything’s ruined and rotting. Days and nights are an endless labyrinth of deducing and puzzle solving, trying to weed out Moriarty from every corner of the Earth.

 

February rolls around and Sherlock buys himself the finest Belgian chocolates ever manufactured but can’t eat them. He unties the heart-shaped charm from the top of the box and slips it into his pocket before throwing the candy away.

 

_Keep going._ He curls a fist around the metal heart. _Get home._

 

**4.**

The next Valentine’s, Sherlock is running. No time for chocolate. The charm hangs from a piece of twine around Sherlock’s neck and bounces against his chest.

 

_Get home. Get home. Get home._

 

He’s almost there.

 

**5.**

So much has changed.

 

February brings swirling flurries that don’t stick, pallid grey skies, and bridal fittings. On the way to the shop, they pass window after window filled with purple and lace and decadent candy boxes.

 

Sherlock can’t eat chocolate anymore.

 

He trails behind John and Mary and it’s a living nightmare. They’re holding hands. They’re always holding hands, they’re always standing next to each other, they’re always walking in stride. Sherlock watches John’s feet and aches for the way their steps used to hit the ground at the exact same time.

 

Mary peers back every few seconds, smiling. Smirking. Sherlock smiles back and he can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. But it doesn’t matter because John doesn’t look back at all.

 

At the fitting, Sherlock can’t keep his eyes off John. The line of John’s strong shoulders underneath the perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket is truly more than one man should be expected to bear, in Sherlock’s opinion. Mary is elsewhere in the shop when John asks Sherlock to help him with the knot of his tie.

 

“Bloody things, I can never get them right.” John tugs at it, left, right, left. The entire thing is a mess, so Sherlock crosses the room and spins John around to face him. _Too close_. Sherlock can feel John’s breath, smell his skin at this distance.

 

“It’s alright, John. I’ll be there to help you. Worst comes to worst, we’ll keep an emergency clip-on in my pocket.”

 

“What would I do without you?”

 

“You’ll never have to find out.”

 

“Already did, once.” Normally, it would sting, but the corner of John’s mouth is turned up.

 

Sherlock chuckles and catches John’s eye, and the intensity there changes the atmosphere of the entire planet. He licks his lips and Sherlock can’t help but let his eyes dart down to follow the path of his tongue. With alarming clarity, Sherlock realizes his hands are resting on John’s chest. He looks back into John’s eyes, lost. Genuinely, Sherlock has no idea what to do. Is this when best friends get misty eyed and hug? Share congratulatory platitudes? Mention the weather? He clears his throat

 

“I suppose the answer to what you do without me is: you get engaged.”

 

It was supposed to be funny. Sherlock thought it would be funny. John’s face goes soft, and his eyes melancholy.

 

“If you’d just come back sooner.” It’s barely a whisper. Sherlock is frozen, hands still resting on John’s chest.

 

“... what?”

 

Mary and three of the shop’s attendants burst into the room, all noise and gestures and books of samples waving about. Instinctively, John and Sherlock jump apart, try to look nonchalant. Mary calls John over immediately and Sherlock spins around to hide his face. Looking in the mirror, he finds a phantom reflected there. Pale skin, empty eyes, dark circles. Gaunt.

 

_If I’d only come back sooner_ … then what? What was John trying to say? He looks across the room at John kissing Mary on the cheek.

 

The moment’s gone. All Sherlock can see is ghosts.

 

\--

 

Habits are hard to break and there’s nothing quite like chocolate for nursing a broken heart.

 

Sherlock buys a box of the finest Belgian chocolates but he can’t taste them. He leaves the mostly-full box on the coffee table in the flat and the next week, when John’s over for a case, they surface.

 

“Hey, I remember these! From, uh … before. What was that, must’ve been three Valentine’s ago?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t look away from the evidence wall.

 

“Four.”

 

“Oh, right. You finished with these?”

 

“Take it.”

 

“Cheers!”

 

It’s so much like their interaction four years ago tears prick at Sherlock’s eyes. _If I’d just asked him then_ … John’s putting on his coat.

 

“Leaving?”

 

“Yeah, meeting Mary for dinner at 8. Thanks for these, she’ll love them.”

 

John holds up the velveteen box by way of a farewell and Sherlock is sick. He wants to yell, to scream after John like a toddler: _I didn’t say you could share them with Mary!!!!!_ When the front door shuts Sherlock gives in to a childish fit of rage and tears everything from the evidence wall down, shredding pages and photographs, throwing the pieces everywhere. Mrs. Hudson comes through the door in the middle of it all.

 

“Done with that case, then, dear?”

 

“Yes. Boring. It was the wife.”

 

**6.**

Sometimes two people can know precisely what they want, precisely what they need, and still can’t set themselves on a path to get it.

 

Mary’s been gone for over a month. Mycroft texts Sherlock that she’s been found dead. He deletes the message. Once they found out she’d faked the pregnancy and subsequently disappeared, John didn’t seem to care much about the details.

 

John’s busy moving his things back into 221B and Sherlock’s busy trying to figure out how he’s supposed to act. What he wants to do is jump up and down, spin around, play show tunes on his violin and sing at the top of his lungs. _John!! Moving back into the flat!_ It’s a miracle. But jubilation seems tasteless when someone just lost their wife and child, despite the wife being evil and the child turning out to be imaginary.

 

They don’t talk about it. Sherlock feels like they should but he honestly doesn’t know how. He waits for something to happen.

 

\--

 

Hearts and lace start to fill up shop windows and Sherlock thinks, _this is it_.

 

On the morning of February 14, he leaves the flat early. He wants to give himself plenty of time to work up the courage. Hours, even. He traipses all over London, texts John he’s doing research and not to worry. Finally, in the late afternoon, feet numb in his shoes, Sherlock sees his reflection in a window. Hair tousled and windswept, bright red cheeks and a slight running nose and just like that, he’s not a ghost any more. It comes slamming into his mind like a mack truck against a wall … _what am I waiting for?_

 

Running, he makes it to Tesco in minutes and grabs up the same box as always, and he runs home, laughing. It feels like flying.

 

\--

 

“John? Are you here? There’s something I want to talk about and, well, I’ve got you something … it’s kind of silly, but—”

 

The landing door to their flat is closed and what Sherlock sees when he opens it stops him in his tracks.

 

Every surface is covered in either vases of flowers or heart-shaped boxes containing, Sherlock knows, the finest dark Belgian chocolates ever manufactured. The one he’s holding falls from his hands to the floor with a _thunk_. John’s standing in the middle of the room.

 

“John?”

 

“I finally figured it out. The chocolates ... they were for me, weren’t they?”

 

He can’t answer. Tears spill down his cheeks and, mouth agape, he nods silently.

 

“Come here.”

 

Sherlock tries to make his feet move but all of his limbs have turned to mush. He stumbles forward, tripping over the chocolates at his feet, and John meets him halfway. They stand in front of each other, not touching. Still scared, still unsure.

 

“Sherlock, I …”

 

Boldness in his veins, an entire ocean rushing in his ears, Sherlock scoots forward until their bodies are aligned, softly pressed together, and whispers, with the only breath left in his lungs:

 

“I love you. Please. Will you marry me?”

 

Sherlock always imagined kissing John for the first time would be like a breaking dam, a shuttle firing into space: hard, explosive, unrelenting. But the way John melts into him now, running his nose across Sherlock’s jaw and cheek, slipping over to gently lap at his mouth: it’s like a gently cresting wave, it’s like Sherlock finally, _finally_ has a soft place to land.

 

John pulls back, and whispers, _yes_ and then they’re embracing, and crying, and practically dancing. John lifts Sherlock off the ground and they’re spinning and John’s saying _yes, yes, yes,_ over and over and they’re laughing and they fall to the ground in a heap, all coat and limbs and boxes of chocolate raining down.

 

They end up laying on the floor, Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, holding hands. Sherlock hears a faint clicking noise. He twists around and sees that John’s retrieved his laptop with his free hand and is typing away on the floor.

 

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

 

“Typing up a blog post.”

 

“ _Now_?”

 

“‘Course. I don’t want to wait any longer to tell everyone we’re engaged.”

 

Laughing, Sherlock turns back around to lay against John, warmth and joy spreading through every appendage, all the way to his fingertips. After a few seconds he sits up.

 

“Alright, bring it over here, you’re not writing this alone.”

 

“Don’t think I need your help, thank you very much.”

 

“You do if you want it to be any good.”

 

“Shut up.”  
  


As they write, Sherlock feeds John a box of the finest Belgian chocolates ever manufactured.


End file.
